


Don't Go

by xTheLastOfUs



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Depression, Descriptions of gore, Happy Ending, M/M, Mental Illness, More tags to be added, Paranormal, Supernatural - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-30
Updated: 2015-12-09
Packaged: 2018-03-26 10:04:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3846775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xTheLastOfUs/pseuds/xTheLastOfUs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I do not know how it came to be like this.</p><p>I do not know many things, some of them important and some inconsequential and some faint and some bright, but there is one thing that I always know. This one thing will always crush me.</p><p>--</p><p>In which Lavellan is, in some capacity, completely insane. But that doesn't bother Dorian.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Of Death and Petstores

**Author's Note:**

> yeah like wow this description was awful  
> lavellan has some supernatural power you'll figure out quickly  
> In this fic his name is Vallasdahlen (yeah idk why)  
> let me know what you think okay please thanks

I do not know how it came to be like this.

I do not know many things, some of them important and some inconsequential and some faint and some bright, but there is one thing that I always know. This one thing will always crush me.

The first time I see him, it is from behind. From behind I can see his ashen gray skin, colored like his blood was gone. Disheveled hair was uneven like chunks were ripped from his scalp, his walk crooked and staggered from the broken ankle (and at what an interesting angle did the bone jut out, gleaming lowly from the harsh fluorescent lights). His clothes were neat and orderly, the blood not wetting the fabric. Because I knew this was just some glitch in my brain and the gore was not real. Not now, anyway. It would be too real as he took in his last gasp of air, likely screaming at the top of his lungs as he was murdered brutally. Or gurgling, suffocating on his own blood. Maybe over drugs? The mafia? It seemed to be too much of a hack job to be organized like that. Home invasion gone terribly wrong? Tourist in a foreign country being sold off into a human trafficking ring? That seemed more like it. Something a little more spontaneous. But my mind always ran away with me. Who knew, at this stage, exactly what the hell was gonna happen to him? And why did I care? 

I'd seen worse. The most gruesome murders, people burned alive with their skin charred or suicides or car accidents. That didn't alter the dismay I felt, the sinking in my chest, when he turns around and half of his face is just not there. One eye gone, face beaten to a bloody pulp. He was beaten to death and clearly he'd put up a fight. There was nothing else that it could possibly have been. He was obviously gorgeous, even as a dead man. 

I blink and the warped image of him in death disappears. Before me he stands, whole. Complete. And, Mythal, he was gorgeous. Honeyed eyes, strong features, olive skin, cocky smirk. I look to my feet, blushing up to my ears. I tell myself to calm down and swallow heavily. I push the image of him, dead, from my mind and greet him. I'd gotten much better at pretending I didn't see people as they would be murdered upon my first look.

"Yes, sir?" I ask him, trying to cut out any sign of strain. He looked like he'd be used to people being flustered around him. His unwavering smirk, the way he carried himself, the polished and effortless look about him. Yeah, he knew. I bite my lip and shift from one foot to another.

Our height difference is negligible, but I still feel like he's looming over me. I was maybe good at pretending I didn't see them any differently, but that didn't mean I could handle socializing in any degree of decency. Not for the first time, I hate my job. I just worked at a pet store. I didn't want all this. 

"I recently became interested in purchasing a fish but am in need of assistance when it comes to actually buying one." He says this matter-of-factly, his smile melting my insides. His voice was deep and smooth and I could only imagine how hoarse it would be when he was dying, all the screaming messing up his vocal chords.

We closed in thirty minutes and even as gorgeous as he was I didn't have time for this. I blink at him slowly. "What kind of fish? Your standard goldfish or something fancier?"

He scratches the back of his head with one hand, his shirt sleeve lifting up. He had tattoos. The specific pose highlighted the muscles of his arm, well toned. His tone bled of confidence. His body language, all of him, his mannerisms and smirk and clear confidence. "Just a normal goldfish. Start off small, you know? Never had a fish before. And you... look like you'll be able to help." With his pause, he looks me up and down. Suddenly I want to shrink in on myself, self confidence crushing me body and soul. He smiles, not unkind but not innocent either.

I sigh and set down the box I'd been carrying. My hair flops into my face, somewhat messy and unkempt. It was hard for me to keep myself together but I had to to have a job. I tug down my sleeves and straighten. "Well, follow me then."

He follows me across the floor, trailing just behind me. I am thoroughly sure he is being purposefully attractive and coy and flirtatious just to make me flustered. Or it's all in my head and his standards are decent. I lead him straight to the plain goldfish, gesturing wordlessly at the two tanks. Tons of goldfish swam around mindlessly in their glass tank, bumping into the glass and each other. Fish were so stupid and died too quickly.

"Pick one out and we'll go from there," I tell him. He peers through the glass, taking a moment to consider which one he'd like. It was not very likely he would get the exact one he'd point out, seeing as they were almost all the exact same and there were too many of the damn things.

When he's bent over, focused on the tank, my eyes are drawn to the smooth curve of his ass. It was pretty nice, I muse, the perfect amount to grab onto. The niceness of his ass does not make me forget the mangled image of his face burned into my brain. Twenty minutes to close. God, I hoped he was leaving soon. I close my eyes against the wave of nausea that washes over me. 

When I open my eyes, my reality has been distorted. For the briefest second, I see the smashed in portion of his face, some of his teeth knocked out. The mangled look about him nearly sent me to retching. A blink later and his gorgeous face is before me again, his side profile aesthetically pleasing in its normal state. He was gorgeous, that was obvious. Even in death, in a disgusting, macabre way. If you were into that. I, however, was not. Good thing I hadn't eaten much for lunch.

He straightens up and I direct my eyes to his face. It was normal now, the gore all gone. I didn't know why I sometimes could see their death after the initial time, why some people haunted me more than others, but it was infrequent so I tried not to worry about it. As much as one could avoid worrying about constantly seeing visions of people as they died, as much as one could avoid the constant reminder of their insanity.

"There's one in the bottom tank, a red spot across the face, a little fatter than the others. I'd like that one, please." He smiles, like he's pleased with himself. I almost snort. He was, admittedly, cute. I get a little plastic baggie and fill it with water. I get the little green net we used to scoop up the fish after popping off the lid of the tank.  He watches me as I do my best to get the goddamn fish into the net. I am obviously easily frustrated by the stupid fish, my disdain for them probably quite clear to him. He seems mildly amused by my annoyance. My expertise and the fact I'd done this many times before kicks in, though, and in a matter of moments I've captured the goldfish in question. Before I raise him from the tank and transport him into the bag, however, I look to him for confirmation.

"This one?" I ask. I'd lost track of time, at this point, so it was a little irritating to still have not finished up my closing tasks. Oh well. I worked the opening shift tomorrow, so if it came to it I could always finish stocking the shelves tomorrow... If I felt like waking up early to do so. It might not even come to that, though. I might get no sleep at all. If the way his death were already haunting me had anything to do with it. 

"Yes, thank you," he replies, eyes flashing with delight. He did seem genuinely pleased about the dumb fish. I finish up with it, transporting it to a water-filled plastic bag. I hand it off to him, my hand nearly brushing his. I can feel a blush begin, the thought of holding his hand presenting itself. I imagine his knuckles would be bloodied as he was dying. He was a fighter, that much was clear.

I essentially pick out a tank and fish food for him, as when he picked it out he was not all too decisive and I wasn't being the most patient. Not good customer service.

I ring up his items at the register and when I hand him the plastic bag containing some of the shit he'd need, our hands brush. The simple contact almost makes me shiver, and my gaze is drawn to his hands. To my untrained eye, he must work with his hands. And use a really good hand cream. His skin was still smooth, soft and tan and pretty. I swallow again and direct my hands to his face.

He smiles at me, thanks me for his help in that deep, confident voice of his. Withdraws his hand slowly. As he leaves, he turns back for a second. Smiles again. Then he is gone.


	2. Almost-Deaths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lavellan's head already hurts from the impending hospital bills.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am working on my phone on this bc reasons so i apologize if any formatting is messed up

Something happened to me as a child that made me this way. I wasn't born like this.

My parents know something is wrong, when at the age of five, I screamed at every one I saw. It started with seeing my great aunt. The bitter old woman was on her deathbed, wasting away with no dignity. There was a gash in her chest, a gaping wound. Blood poured from it, but she was talking like she was just fine. When I see it I scream bloody murder, like I was the one with the hole in my chest. And I haven't stopped screaming since.

I was almost held back a year in school. My parents were terrified, both for my sake and of me. I told them of the angry scratch in my grandmother's chest. Two weeks later, she was murdered in her own home when a local man broke into her house to steal her valuables. Stabbed her once in the chest and left her to bleed out on her kitchen floor. After nearly scaring my mother and father to death with that, I learned quickly to shut up about it. To deal with that horror all on my own. Still, it slipped out sometimes. Like when I saw the gunshot wound in my second grade teacher's head. I told my mother only in passing, but when I was eighteen he was found dead in his home, bullet in his brain. He'd committed suicide. She remembered my words. She believed me, in her own, cautious, weary way. Just like my father.

I never had the heart to tell her how anyone she knew would die. That her best friend was going to drown. That my older brother was going to have a heart attack. That she and my father would burn alive. 

Three days later, I am grocery shopping. It is not something I do often, much less something that I enjoy. I only go late at night, too, avoiding as many people as possible. It made it easier that way. 

I get all my groceries and head to the checkout. The cashier hands me my change with a hand so mangled it is a wonder it is all still together. A really, really awful accident, like her hand was stuck in a meat grinder, probably. If I had to guess. I wasn't sure what it was that drove me to identify the cause of death, but I wish I could turn off my instinctual need to guess. It accomplished nothing but making me more upset, more plagued by death. Which, in itself, was a pretty incredible feat. But hey, at least I'd somewhat accepted that part of myself. Now I was just left to work on my social skills.

I take a bus back to my apartment. It wasn't the best neighborhood and it was the middle of the night. There were only five others on the bus with me. I try to ignore them the best I could. 

Something makes my skin crawl. I'd always been so damn sensitive to those weird, premonition kind of things. I cast a nervous glance around the bus. Two of the passengers sat huddled together, probably some couple. They died together, anyway, both the same mangled look about them. A bit of charred, shredded skin. Something painful, perhaps a crash. A teenage boy sits a few seats down. An older woman. A middle aged man.

The bus comes to a bit of a rough stop, another passenger coming on board. They take a seat across from me, a brief moment of eye contact. Their eyes were bloodshot, the gaping wound in their stomach pulsing dark with blood. You could see straight through them. Their fingers were blackened and charred, like their hands were grilled. I swallow heavily, head spinning.

I close my eyes and lean my head back, trying not to throw up. They all had the same wounds on them, consistent and gory and the same style. I look to the bus driver. His skull was caved in, like blunt force trauma. Like a skull hitting pavement with too much force. This bus was going to crash. I wouldn't die, no, my death was much different. I had to get off, though. Needed to get off. Don't think I could live through this. Not mentally (and not financially either; my family and I aren't poor, collectively, but this? This would be disastrous. Goodbye, savings). Couldn't really live through it whether I was here or not. Not telling them they'd die tonight would weigh upon my conscience. But I'd tried something like that, to no avail. Death was a sort of self-fulfilling prophecy, and I was powerless against it. The way by which one dies is something that cannot be changed by any force on earth.

I call my parents. My dad picks up, exhaustion in his voice. "Hello? Da'len?"

"Dad?" My worry is clear. My voice is shaking, barely able to hold the phone properly. "Dad. I just needed to tell you, I'll be okay. I make it through this. I, um, it'll be hard but I don't die. P-promise."

"Vallasdahlen? What's happening?" He's definitely more awake. 

"Just know it's okay. Tell mamae and Revasan that I love them- Ir abelas. I love you." And then it's gone.

\--

I almost wish I die. 

I don't really know what happens. But there is a violent crash, the engine explodes and there is fire. I crawl out of a broken window, my jeans practically melted to my legs. I feel blood pour down my face, but I do not feel much concern for my own safety. I knew this would not be my end. Maybe I should, though, because my visions of death said nothing of any injuries sustained throughout the course of my life. I hear someone screaming, burning to death. Everything hurts. I felt like this would keep me in the hospital for quite a while. 

\--

If I hadn't ever seen his bloodied, destroyed face before, I probably would  scream at the top of my lungs. As it is, a pained whimper escapes as I jolt up, the worst possible pain radiating all over my body. Yeah, I'd seen his stupid face before. Didn't mean it was easy to handle. I blink and he is already guiding me back down into a laying position, soothing my nerves as best he could. 

The guy from the pet store, mere days ago. He was a nurse? He didn't look so bad in scrubs. I try to process his words, but it's hard. His mouth is moving, and I can hear the words. Just, I can't quite understand them. "...concussion...need to lay down, bed rest and relaxing...your doctor..." I fade out. None of the words held any meaning to me right now. None of them made sense, connected in my brain. He was so serious looking, professional, a contrast to how he was just a few days ago. I peer at him, eyes trained to his mouth. But I can't focus no matter how hard I try to. The strain was far too great, my vision blurring. 

"You look prettier than I remembered," I slur, drug induced stupor taking over. The hospital bills would be what killed me, I could already tell. With that last thought I pass out and dream of nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have been mentally singing 'car radio' for too long pls send help  
> i have a dragon age (more specifically dorian) themed tumblr if anyone would like to follow me (url is princesspavus bc i am the most original yeah) and maybe contribute head canons or something


	3. Aftermath

For a little while, I drift in and out between a medically induced sleep and between a consciousness plagued by pain and guilt.

For the most part, I didn't hurt so much. I was doped up on far too much medication for that, only left with lingering soreness and tenderness. And the self hatred that accompanied knowing that despite the fact there was no escaping the death one was assigned, I didn't even try to help them. I know deep in my soul that any effort would have been futile, pointless, probably only making things worse, that I really can't blame myself or assign guilt to anything. But that doesn't erase the crushing survivor's guilt that plagued me, even during my dreams.

Colors of red and orange and yellow bleed into my dreams, the smell of burning flesh and metal and rust and blood and acrid smoke so real I wake up believing I am still burning, still crawling away from the wreckage with broken glass in my hair, cutting my palms, the fabric of my jeans melted to my legs, blood in my mouth, choking me. An ambulance almost too distant for my ears to pick up on, the blazing fire too deafening. Screaming in the background, all of their incessant screaming blending together to create a single horrific voice, wailing like a nightmarish siren.

And then I wake up.

I am near flying off of the bed in terror, wanting to rip away all the tubes. Wanting to just leave, to just maybe finally fucking escape from this horror. To lose myself for a little bit. 

My heart is nearly beating out of my chest when these dreams happen. I feel like I am about to cave on myself, like I am still choking on the smoke. My head is pounding, pain resonating in my brain. I needed more fucking pain medicine. Something. I desperately needed something that would knock me out so heavily I would not even dream. I hear machines whirring, like alarms going off, and I can't even process them correctly. Sensory overload. Everything is fuzzy at the edges, my fingertips tingling.

The door opens, a nurse rushing in. Dorian. I can only process this fact, put a name to the face, because of his voice. Deep confidence, though strain was clear right now. He was good at his job. He rushes to my side, checks me over. "What's going on?" He asks, having determined nothing was more physically wrong with me than it had been before.

I just shake my head. Nonononono. "Nightmares," I choke out. He had to restrain me, securing my arms by my sides so I wouldn't rip out my IV or hurt myself in my rush to just get the fuck out of here. 

"Vallasdahlen," he says, and no one has ever said my name like that. Not with such... urgency? It was strange. But I didn't mind. It gets my attention. "It's okay." 

The way he says it, it makes me think. Maybe, maybe it will be okay. Maybe once. I feel the medicine begin to kick in, and after he spends some time calming me down and soothing me, the medicine has worked enough that I'm halfway between sleep and consciousness. He moves to leave, but I catch his arm- he turns back, eyes concerned. He was damn good at his job. "Yes, Vallasdahlen?"

I slur my words. "I wasn't afraid. Knew I wouldn't die... but 'm guilty. Cause... cause I knew they were... and there was nothing for me to do. How do you deal with that? Knowing they'll...die?"

He watches me for a moment. The medicine was already in full force, making my eyes droop and my actions sluggish. "I don't know," he answers finally, quietly, and I can barely nod. I let go of him and am asleep before he can even make it out of the room.

I remain in the hospital for longer than I was hoping. Two days after being released I am back at work, struggling to make up for lost time. I find that I am constantly distracted, thinking back to the crash. My mother was urging me to return home and stay with her and my father and younger brother until I was recovered. I told her no, but to placate her I told her I would think about seeing a therapist, as she had suggested. And it was true. I probably really need one.

Weeks pass and life is as normal as it could be for me. My mother finds several therapists for me. I never go back after the first appointment. They told me all sorts of things- that they weren't qualified, that it just wasn't right, that I was simply just way too mentally fucked up for them to handle. I'd be discouraged but I wasn't expecting much else. I just let my mother set up all the appointments she could.

I begin to look for a second job. Just one wasn't enough to cover the insane hospital bills. After a few weeks I manage to get a job at a coffee shop a few blocks away from my job at the pet store. It took some getting used to, and some practice remembering how to make all the different drinks. Sometimes it was hard. People were rude. My hands would shake too much. But, at least, nearly three months after the accident, he shows up. And it changes me.


End file.
